


You healed me

by phoenix_ascended, upsidedownertron



Category: Supernatural
Genre: And YOU Get a Happy Ending, Angelic Grace as a Cure (Supernatural), Demisexual Dean Winchester, Episode Fix-It: s15e19 Inherit the Earth, First Kiss, First Time, Hand Jobs, Jody Mills' Home for Wayward Girls, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Magical solutions for climate change, Original Trans Character - Freeform, Slow Burn, YOU Get a Happy Ending, everyone gets a happy ending, magical solutions for homophobia, magical solutions for late-stage capitalism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:47:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28337940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenix_ascended/pseuds/phoenix_ascended, https://archiveofourown.org/users/upsidedownertron/pseuds/upsidedownertron
Summary: “I still don’t know how to say it back,” Dean admits. “Never been particularly good with words. Don’t think I ever said those particular words to anyone. But I need you to know. Me too. I mean. I feel that, too. What you said.”[How the end of Supernatural should have gone…Canon up to mid-way through s15e19.]Chapter 1: Love by any other nameChapter 2: Tell me there's still pie post-ApocalypseChapter 3: In which Dean and Cas follow up a case in which the girl in question is no ordinary girl — in more ways than one.Chapter 4: Conversations around a magazine (kiss! kiss!)
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Comments: 54
Kudos: 91





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> We all need a happy ending right now. This is ours. We hope it brings you as much joy to read as it's bringing us to write. — Phoenix & J

Dean pulls Baby to the side of the far-too-empty street in front of Showalter’s gas station, tries not to cringe at the _wrong, wrong, wrong_ of it all, pounding through his veins. Sammy and Jack get out of the car, and Dean turns back to Jack.

“All right, kid,” he says. “You really think you can pull this off?” He raises an eyebrow, dares not to hope.

Jack looks — well, Jack looks weirdly calm for a guy who’s just imbibed 300 gallons of God juice. He smiles, closes his eyes. There’s four, five seconds of eerie silence. Dean’s pretty sure he holds his breath.

And then the hubbub of the world returns — the hum of insects, the call of birds, the jangle of a bicycle bell, people at the café just talking, like nothing happened. A dog barking.

“Way to go,” says Dean. “I mean it.”

“So does this mean you’re the new…” begins Sam. “What do we call you?”

“Who cares what we call him,” says Dean. “Is Cas… did you bring Cas… Is everyone back?” He tries to keep the tremble out of his voice, fails miserably.

“Of course, Dean.” Jack smiles again, beatific. “He was the first person I brought back. He’s my father.” Jack cocks his head to the side, like he’s listening, like Cas used to do so often. “He’ll be along momentarily, Dean.” The rush of relief, of gratitude Dean feels would be embarrassing but Dean’s had so much practice hiding how he feels he knows none of it’s on the surface. He’s good. He can wait. So long as Cas is okay, he can wait for however long it takes.

“Hey, what happened to Amara, when Chuck…” Sam trails off.

 _Wow_ , thinks Dean. _Sammy just cannot finish a sentence these days._

“She’s with me,” says Jack. “We’re in — harmony.”

“You gonna — come back with us to the bunker?” asks Sam.

“What d’you mean, course he’s gonna come back to the bunker,” says Dean. “He’s the man with the plan, he’s top dog, he can do whatever he wants now.” Dean means, _I’ll give him anything, anything, if he’s brought Cas back safe._ “C’mon. You know what? We’ll spruce the place up, we’ll get some recliners. Get you one of those big screen TVs.”

Surely Cas will come back to the bunker. They need to get back there, so Dean can… Fuck, Dean doesn’t know what the end of that sentence is. It’s contagious, apparently. He points a finger at Jack, grins at him, buries his anxiety.

“Dean, I’m not coming back home,” says Jack. _Okay_ , thinks Dean. _Was not expecting that._

“In a way, I’m already there,” Jack continues.

“Where?” Dean asks, sharper than he means to.

“Everywhere,” says Jack.

“So you are… Him,” breathes Sam, awed.

Jack shrugs, nonchalant. “I’m me,” he says, simply. “But — I know what you mean.”

“What if we want to see you?” asks Sam. “Or have a beer or whatever?”

“I’m around,” says Jack, brightly. “I’ll be in every drop of falling rain. Every speck of dust that the wind blows. And in the sand, and the rocks, and the sea.”

“It’s a helluva time to bail,” says Dean. “Got a lot of people counting on you. People with questions. They’re gonna need answers.”

“Those answers will be in each of them,” says Jack. “Maybe not today, but some day. People won’t need to pray to me, or to sacrifice to me. They just need to know that I’m already a part of them and to trust in that. I won’t be hands on.”

Sam nods. Dean wants to roll his eyes, impatient as all get out, but he holds himself steady, feels a tremor growing in his jaw and clenches his teeth as Jack keeps talking. 

“Chuck put himself in the story. That was his mistake. But I learnt from you, and my mother, and Castiel, that when people have to be their best? They can be.”

Dean looks down, runs his tongue over too-dry lips, and he looks away. Hearing Cas’ name — he just needs him so badly.

“And that’s what they’ll believe in. Well, I’m only as close as this.” Jack puts his hand on his heart and then holds his hand up in that strange way he has, a wave that isn’t a wave, like the toddler he is, just learning how his body works. “Goodbye,” he says, and walks away, fading into light.

“See you, Jack,” says Sam, but Dean barely hears him. There on the side of the road, looking slightly dazed but otherwise unharmed, is Cas.

Dean sprints towards him, calling his name, the world narrowed to this one point. Cas turns, a frown across his otherwise smooth face.

“Dean?” he rumbles, in his deep voice, and Dean has honestly never been more glad to hear anything in his life.

Dean barrels into him, wraps the angel up in his arms and squeezes him tight, like he’s never going to let go.

“You’re back,” he whispers into Cas’ neck. “I thought I’d lost you.”

“I am,” says Cas. “How?”

“Jack,” says Dean. “Jack brought you back. He absorbed Chuck’s power and he — Well, I guess he’s the Almighty now.”

“Dean,” Cas starts, pushing him back, holding him at arms’ length. “I need to… I shouldn’t have…”

“Cas, no. Stop.” Dean takes a breath, squares up to it. “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything. I’m sorry I didn’t say it back.”

Cas stares at him. Waits. 

“I still don’t know how to say it back,” Dean admits. “Never been particularly good with words. Don’t think I ever said those particular words to anyone. But I need you to know. Me too. I mean. I feel that, too. What you said.”

Cas is still staring at him. He clears his throat, eventually. “You…” he begins. Stops. “But you like women. You have made that abundantly clear. And your discomfort around men who are… you haven’t exactly hidden your disdain, Dean.”

Dean hangs his head at that, a bit. That’s absolutely who he has been. “Maybe 15 years ago, Cas. Not gonna deny that. But that was before I met Charlie.”

“Charlie is a woman, Dean.”

“I know that. But she told me off for being a goddamn hypocrite when we were deep in our cups one night and she was right. Besides, do you honestly think that you can heal me as many times as you have, lay your hands on me and heal me with your grace and that all it did was affect my physical form? Cas, you healed _me_.”

“When I raised you up…”

“Yeah, Cas, when you ‘raised me from perdition’, but after that too, over and over. Cas, man, I got layers of crap so deep, it’s hard to find the good under it but you…” He stops, swallows. “Then I started to … feel things for you but I told myself a man like me could never deserve you. And even then, you believed in me. You — loved _me_. And your love for me, what you said to me yesterday — Cas, it was the last piece of the puzzle. I couldn’t — love you, when I thought I wasn’t worth loving.”

Cas’ eyes are red-rimmed, filled with tears.

“Don’t you start that again,” Dean says, rough, as he swipes at his own eyes. He pauses, looks back towards Sam and — is that Eileen? Huh. He shakes the image of bruised and bloodied Sam from this morning out of his mind, thinks about what he and Sam did to get them here. “I let Chuck live, just now. He said I was the ultimate killer, but I told him that’s not who I am. Because _you_ told me that’s not how you see me.”

“And you say you’re not good with words,” Cas smiles, through damp cheeks. Dean scoffs, runs a brusque hand across his mouth.

“So,” says Castiel. “You love me. And I love you. What now?”

“Honestly, Cas, I ain’t got a clue.”

* * *

When Dean finally finishes telling the story of how they tricked Chuck, they turn back to find Sam and Eileen still standing on the other side of the road, two feet apart and awkward as ever. Eileen signs something to Sam and he turns around as Cas and Dean approach. “Uh, hey,” Sam says. The muscle in his left jaw twitches as he swallows. That’s been happening a lot lately, Dean thinks.

Eileen signs something to Cas, who smiles, and responds, “Yes, we did. Thank you.” Dean frowns at him. Since when does Cas read sign language?

“What?” says Sam, as he signs it.

“I adore you,” she signs, and says. “But sometimes you straight boys are very obtuse.”

Dean clears his throat. He is _so_ not ready to have this conversation with his _brother_. “Sammy, did you call Mom? Is everyone back?”

“I called Jodi, and Donna,” Sam says. “They’re all safe. No answer from Mom.”

“I’m sorry, Sam,” says Cas. “Your mother has chosen to stay in Heaven.” He cocks his head, bird-like, as if he’s listening. “So has Bobby.”

Dean’s texting while they talk, and there’s a faint ping. “Charlie and Stevie are both fine.”

“So everything is back to how it was before?” asks Eileen.

“Not quite,” says Sam. “There’s something different. Something I’m missing. I can’t put my finger on it.”

“Well,” says Dean. “I’m about done standing in the street yammering about it. Let’s go back to the bunker and celebrate!” There’s a yip from around his ankles, and Dean looks down. “Yeah, all right, Miracle, you can come too.”

“Wait,” Cas says to Sam. “We have a dog now? I really missed a lot in 24 hours.”

* * *

It’s crowded in the car — Sam, Eileen and Miracle in the backseat, Cas riding shotgun ( _where he belongs_ , whispers Dean’s traitorous heart). Dean turns the key, but the engine doesn’t turn over. “Oh, come _on_ ,” he snaps. He leans forward, turns the key off and on again.

“Uh, Dean?” comes Sam’s voice from behind him.

“Gimme a minute, Sammy.” He tries the key again.

“I think the car’s fine, Dean,” says Sam, in that explaining-it-like-he’s-five voice.

“I know my damn car, Sam,” Dean grits out. 

“I, uh. I think Jack made a few, uh, _changes_ when he brought everyone back, Dean.”

“What are you talking about, man?”

“Pretty sure Baby is electric now, Dean. Didn’t that used to be a gas station?”

Castiel is looking out the window to where Sam is indicating. “I think Sam might be right,” he says, in wonder. Dean looks up too, takes in the 1950s sign reading _Showalter’s Diner_ , all swoops and swirls, white picket-fence around the open-air seating and the patrons all chirpy with their shakes and the red-and-white paper straws matching the checked tablecloths.

“Son of a bitch,” he says. He turns the key again but this time puts the car in gear and it glides smoothly away from the kerb. It’s unnerving, the lack of sound and he misses the smooth rumble that tells him his Baby is running happy. He tamps down his freak-out — everything is too damn close to the surface right now, it’s been a _day_ , he’s not going to lose it again. He feels — frayed. The whiplash of going from despair to being Chuck’s punching bag to the elation at Cas’s return to fear at Jack’s omnipotence — is it any wonder he’s jittery? He needs a burger and a beer. With a whiskey chaser. Cas puts his hand on the seat between them, like he’s reaching out, but Dean can’t even think about that right now.

“Wonder what other sneaky changes Jack snuck in?” muses Sam.

Eileen says, “Who’s the president?” and Dean glances in the rear-vision mirror as Sam looks it up, grins and signs back three letters. He didn’t catch what that meant, but they’re both laughing happily, so it must be good news.

Back at the bunker, Sam and Eileen make their excuses and head to Sam’s room, Eileen leading him by the hand. Sam looks back at Dean for a moment like he feels he ought to be doing something else, or that he’s going to get in trouble or something and it’s all Dean can do not to roll his eyes at him again. He gives Sam a thumbs up and a shoo-ing motion, and Sam _does_ roll his eyes at Dean, so that’s a job well done, but then they’re gone, and Dean and Cas are left alone. And, well. Fuck.

Dean gets two beers from the fridge, carries them back by their necks and hands one to Cas. He pulls out a chair, turns it around and sits on it, legs spread across it. He leans his arms on its back, bottle dangling from thumb and forefinger. He can practically hear Cas thinking, as he stands there, awkward, holding his beer stiffly.

“I didn’t think I’d be coming back, Dean.”

“I know,” says Dean. He takes a swig of the beer. Cas does the same.

The silence is painful. Then they both say, “I…” at the same time and that’s worse.

Cas gestures for Dean to continue.

“You should sit down, Cas. You’re making me nervous.” 

Cas looks apologetic, one side of his mouth quirking up, but he pulls a chair up and he sits. Dean can’t help but notice he’s a little closer than usual. And for a man who doesn’t pay a heck of a lot of attention to personal space on a regular day, that’s saying something. Cas is picking at the label on his beer, not looking at Dean. Dean’s still running on adrenaline, or the aftershocks of adrenaline crash, one or the other. He can’t quite stop shaking, and he’s got this voice on a loop in the back of his mind. _He’s back, he’s alive, he loves me, he’s back, he’s alive, he loves me._ He thinks back to the question Cas asked him a few hours ago, “What now?” It’s a good question. 

“So,” he starts, and fuck his nerves, really. He clears his throat and starts again. “You asked me, what now? What do _you_ want to do?”

Cas finally looks up at him, clear blue eyes open and hopeful.

“Being around you makes me happy, Dean. I don’t need more than that.”

Dean nods. It’s kind of what he expected, given the whole “I know I can’t have this” melodramatic bullcrap. 

“Being around you makes me happy, too, Cas.” He swallows. Time to take a risk. “But would you… _like_ more?” He runs a tentative finger down the back of Castiel’s hand. Cas draws in a breath.

Dean looks at Cas, unwavering, waiting. Cas looks back.

“My vessel would like more,” he says, eventually. “I’m not immune to physical sensation. It reacted in a similar way when I kissed Meg. But with you… it’s different.”

“Different how?”

“I don’t quite know yet.” He cocks his head, and his eyes lose focus for a second. “It might be because I love you.”

“Jesus, Cas.”

“Am I not supposed to say it again? Now that you know I love you, I want to tell you all the time.”

“No, it’s…” Dean runs his hand across his mouth. “You were a little bit right, earlier. I’ve never kissed a man, Cas. I’ve definitely thought about it. There was an old, old friend, Lee… he and I… but that’s ancient history now.” He takes a swig of his beer, swallowing down memories and old fears, and Lee’s death, far too recently.

“Do you want to kiss me?” asks Cas. Dean almost chokes on his mouthful. Trust Cas to go directly for the guts of the matter. Cas’s face falls and Dean closes his hand around Castiel’s wrist.

“Don’t take that the wrong way,” he says, urgently. And Cas looks back up at him, so open, so fucking trusting again. What the fuck is he supposed to do with all this honesty? How is he supposed to talk about how sex is for him, what it’s been? It feels like what he has with Cas has been this sacred, untouchable thing, that if he acknowledged that he wanted something more base, he would ruin it somehow, but even to his own ears, that sounds like a load of hooey. Just because the vast majority of sex in his life has been transactional doesn’t mean this has to be. He lets himself imagine for a moment what it would be like to kiss Cas, lets his eyes drop to Cas’s plush mouth, and yeah, okay. That’s a yes.

“I know I want to be close with you, Cas,” he says. “I don’t just want this to be some hippy-dippy ethereal thing where we vibe on the same frequency but we never, y’know…”

“Good,” says Cas. “I want that too. When I was in the Empty, I imagined holding you. Comforting you.”

Dean physically aches for that, feels as though every atom in his body is straining towards Cas. He makes himself take a breath, makes himself drink again. And when his heart has slowed down a little, and he trusts himself to speak, he says quietly, “Oh, Cas, I wanted that so much, when I thought you were gone forever.”

It’s Cas’s turn to cover Dean’s hand with his own.

“That’s what we will do first, then, Dean. Just that.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to [HaniTrash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HaniTrash/pseuds/HaniTrash) and [badritual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/badritual/pseuds/badritual) for America-picking and beta reading. Any remaining errors are entirely ours.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Cas shrugs out of his trenchcoat, folds it neatly and places it carefully on the chair next to the green sofa. Dean glances around his room, as if he’s seeing it for the first time.

“Uh, sorry,” he says. “There’s uh, there’s only one pillow.”

“That’s okay, Dean.” Cas toes off his shoes, sits on the bed. He reaches behind him, turning the one pillow vertically behind his back and scooches back against it, swinging his legs up in front of him. He pats the space next to him, looks at Dean expectantly.

Dean leans down to unlace his boots, slides them off. He sits next to Cas on the bed, legs outstretched next to him, their hips touching. He wonders, briefly, whether he should have undressed more — left his T-shirt on, of course, but maybe taken his flannel off? He doesn’t have time to get into overthinking it though. Cas wraps one arm around him and tugs him down, so his head is on Cas’s shoulder. It’s almost instinct to turn his body towards him, shuffle down so his head is on Cas’s chest instead, one leg slightly over his. He can hear Cas’s heart beating, and feel his chest rising and falling.

Castiel lifts his other hand and places it on Dean’s hip, tightens his hold, and Dean feels something loosen in his chest. He feels safe, protected, maybe for the first time since he was, like, eight. He’s never been the one in this position with a partner before, always expected to be the strong one. He feels a lump in his throat, and swallows down the moment of shame. He can almost hear Charlie’s voice in his head, _fuck their expectations, Dean_. Okay, so maybe he’s dealt with being into men but the other tough guy bullshit is going to take some work. Cas strokes his hair, and it makes Dean shudder lightly, a tingle all the way down his back. 

“Okay?” asks Cas.

“Really good,” murmurs Dean and snuggles in closer. Fuck their expectations, for real. Why shouldn’t he be allowed this touch, this intimacy?

He realises dimly that he’s not sure what’s next, and then sleepily decides that’s a gift too. He loves that there’s no script, that he’s not expected to perform a series of obvious moves that lead from pick-up to stripping to oral to fucking. It’s been a very long day. Cas is warm. They should probably find a second pillow. Or get under the covers at least. He’s too comfy, though. Soon. In a few minutes.

He falls asleep in Cas’ arms.

* * *

When he wakes up in the morning, the sensation of someone tucked up behind him is alien enough, but it takes another three seconds for his brain to identify the insistent hardness pressing into his butt cheek. He’s almost surprised to note that he is cataloguing the sensations sleepily, noting other differences, musculature and hair, the musky scent of Cas, draped over him. The weight of him. How different it is, too, not to be wondering how he’s going to extract himself, make excuses, and get out without being a douche about it. It’s like a dream. Such a pleasant dream. He wakes up a little more. That’s really Cas. Cas is back, real and solid, in his _bed_. 

He turns over in the angel’s arms, and it’s really him. Not a dream. Cas opens his eyes and Dean sees the moment they widen minutely. Cas immediately moves back, creating distance between their torsos and their groins.

“I’m so sorry, Dean,” Cas starts.

“What? No, no, Cas, it’s completely normal. You already, like, implied you, um. Want me like that? So I’m not. You know. Surprised.”

“You were not impressed when this happened because of the pizza man, Dean.” Cas looks very serious. 

Dean boggles at him, trying to work out what on earth Cas is talking about. He has a very dim inkling about it. “Cas, that was _years_ ago.”

“What can I say?” says Castiel. “I don’t have the luxury of forgetting things like that.”

“You remember everything?”

“It is both a blessing and a curse.”

Dean rests his head on his hand, propped up on his elbow to look at Cas. “Well, that was different. My brother was in the room, for one.”

“Yes, he was,” says Cas. He looks thoughtful. “So it is acceptable to have this reaction to being near you if Sam is not in the room. Noted. But you are not in the same state. You do not have ‘a boner’.” Dean can feel himself blush, the way Cas just _says_ shit like that. He is not ready for this conversation, doesn’t know where to start. Doesn’t have his sometimes excuse of too much alcohol. Isn’t at that point where he needs to clean the pipes, and besides, he doesn’t want that mechanical interaction with Cas. 

“It’s not that I’m not _into_ you,” he starts, the familiar line feeling like a betrayal.

“It’s okay, Dean,” says Cas. “I told you. I am happy just being with you.” 

“I’ll get there,” Dean says, earnest, as if saying it will convince himself that it’s true. 

“It’s okay if you never do, Dean. Truly. I think you are putting more pressure on yourself to conform to some behaviour you think I want from you than I am.” Castiel closes the distance between them again, and kisses Dean’s hair. “When I said I thought I could never have this, I wasn’t talking about sex. This is what I was talking about — this quiet space with just us, and being allowed to touch you. It’s enough.”

“It is?” asks Dean, and he hates the note of self-doubt in his voice.

“It is. Will it make you uncomfortable if I hold you close again, even though the boner is between us?”

Dean laughs at him and cuffs Cas on the shoulder. “We need to teach you sexier words, man. C’mere.” He pulls Cas back into his embrace, feels the moment Cas’s cock brushes up against his thigh, and sees the slight dilation of his pupils, hears the sharp inhalation. “Feels good, huh?”

“Very good, Dean.”

They lie there in silence for a few minutes, just gazing at each other, Cas' fingers trailing lightly up and down Dean's back, and then Dean’s stomach rumbles loudly. 

Cas smiles. “Time for bacon?” he asks.

“Oh god yes. And coffee. I think yesterday was so goddamn hectic, I didn’t manage to have any.”

* * *

Sam and Eileen are already eating at the table in the nook next to the kitchen when Dean and Cas get there. Dean sighs inwardly. To be honest, he was kinda hoping they’d still be asleep. Or out. He’s nervous about seeing Sam after last night. Isn’t sure what Sam knows, or _thinks_ he knows. Isn’t sure whether it’s obvious Cas stayed in his bed. Isn’t sure whether he cares if Sam knows that.

Completely unaware of Dean having a minor freak-out before breakfast, Miracle bounds over to them the moment they appear. Dean ruffles her fur and takes advantage of the excuse not to deal with the inevitable, at least for another minute. 

“Oh, hi, girl! Hi. Hi!” He gets down on his haunches to really talk to her. “I don’t even know if we’ve got proper food for you, gorgeous, but I’m gonna find you a steak.”

“Really?” asks Sam.

“You got a better idea, Sammy?” Dean says, knowing he doesn’t.

Dean walks over to the fridge and rustles around for the meat, pulls out the milk while he’s at it. Then he catches sight of Cas — in Dean’s shirt, natch; he’s so glad they’re the same size — pouring them both a coffee, and Dean can’t help the grin tugging at the corner of his lips. Turns out he’s too happy to be nervous, after all.

“You seem cheerful,” Sam says.

“Yup,” says Dean, as he chops up some steak, and puts it in a bowl on the floor for Miracle. Back at the table, he uses Sam’s shoulder to steady himself as he swings down onto the low stool. “Saved the world again, got my angel back, Chuck’s out of our hair. What’s not to love?”

Sam raises an eyebrow at the two of them. Dean mentally dares him to make something of it. He doesn’t. Cas sits down next to Eileen, opposite Dean. He nods at Sam.

“What’s the news?” he says.

“Mixed,” says Sam. “All sorts of attempts to explain what happened. Reports of alien abductions, the Rapture, mass hallucination due to the government spiking the water systems. But also the majority of people who were taken on the last day just think they lost a few hours, so…”

“And,” says Eileen, “it looks like there’s no such thing as monsters any more.”

Dean looks up sharply at that. “There’s — wait what? Are you serious? No vamps, no wolves, no shifters? No hell hounds?”

“Looks like it,” says Sam.

“No demons?” asks Cas. “Please hold.” He cocks his head, the way he does when he’s listening, fingers splayed out on the table.

Dean gets up, refills his coffee and heads up to the griddle. He pulls half a pound of bacon and a bunch of eggs out of the fridge. Sets it all to frying and leans down under the island to fetch plates. Miracle comes over to beg for scraps and he shoos her away.

No monsters. Hot damn. It’s a lot to process. In a way, it’s everything he could have hoped for. They’ve finally done it. They’re finally free, right? No more hunting. Guilt-free retirement. He gets to have his happily-ever-after, maybe. But it also feels too good to be true, like any moment, someone will pop out like they’re on Candid Camera, laughing at how gullible one Dean Winchester is. What, you thought you could have a normal life? Joke’s on you, buddy.

“Well,” Cas says, after a moment. “I was right. No demons, no hell. There’s still a heaven, and still angels. I mean, apart from me. Although Jack is reorganising heaven and wants to know if I’m interested in being involved.” 

Dean flips the eggs.

“What did you say?” asks Sam.

“I told him I’d think about it. I quite enjoy being an architect in that sense, but I’m not ready for such a big task at the moment. Not one that will take me away from — here.” 

Dean senses Cas looking at him through the doorway, and looks across at Cas. He nods at him, feeling that reassurance. He turns off the burner, and slides the eggs out of the pan.

“What happened to the souls that were in hell?” Eileen asks.

“They just weren’t brought back, as far as I can tell,” says Cas. He looks up with a smile as Dean places a plate of bacon and eggs in front of him. 

Dean swipes the syrup from in front of Eileen and sits down again. He stuffs his mouth full of bacon, toast and syrup, and it’s fucking blissful.

“And purgatory?” asks Sam.

“That’s part of Jack’s plan, actually. Sort of a holding zone for souls to atone for bad behaviour before going to heaven. Something like the original Gehenna project, far as I can tell.”

“So Jack’s setting up a cosmic behaviour change program in purgatory? Sounds like a riot.” Dean laughs, around another big mouthful of food.

“That’s not a bad analogy, Dean. It will indeed be like rehab,” says Cas.

“You know who Jack should get to run that?” says Sam. “Rowena. She’s got some experience in that department, you know, learning how to be halfway decent as a, as a person. Did, uh… Did Rowena make it?”

“I’m not sure, Sam. Sorry,” says Cas.

“No, it’s okay,” says Sam. “I’d understand if she didn’t.” He holds up a glass of green juice. “To everyone we lost along the way.” 

The others clink coffee cups against his glass, and drink the toast to their friends — to Meg and Crowley and Ruby, who did their best, in various ways, selfish as they might have been, and to all those who made demon deals and didn’t necessarily deserve the fate that Chuck’s rigged systems delivered to them.

They finish their breakfasts — Cas has a second cup of coffee and generously lets Dean finish off the bacon. 

Dean wipes the grease off his hands onto his jeans, and thinks how much he loves good food. Delicious bacon, good burgers, sweet… and then his brain stutters to a halt in a moment of sheer panic. 

“Um,” he says. “What else has Jack changed, do you think?”

“Dunno,” says Sam. “Ended homelessness, maybe?”

“Actually,” Eileen says. “We talked about this a little last night. Sam and I decided we should document everything we remember about what happened, in case we start forgetting.”

“For future Men — and Women — of Letters,” Sam says, earnest as always.

“Can we just say People of Letters?” Eileen says to Sam. 

They’re not getting it, Dean thinks. He can’t listen to this. 

“I need to go into town,” says Dean, grabbing his keys. “Get dog food. Anybody want anything?” He looks at Cas, willing him to catch a hint. He doesn’t want to leave Cas, but also doesn’t know how to tell him he’s terrified that if he leaves alone, Cas won’t be there when he comes back. Some part of him is still convinced that he’s actually just hallucinated Cas’s return.

“I’m coming with you,” Cas says, like he’s read his mind. Dean looks at him, grateful.

“Can you pick up the newspaper for me?” asks Sam.

“Sure thing.”

As they walk down the steps into the garage, Cas looks quizzically at Dean. “What are we really going into town for?”

“This is going to sound ridiculous.”

“Go ahead.”

“I just need there to still be pie.” The panic is still in his chest, the urgent need to move away from this state of not knowing and into certainty, either way.

“Why would Jack take pie away, Dean?”

“I don’t know, Cas. Maybe pie and soda and, and, and chocolate, maybe they’re all gone, in some misguided attempt to make us all eat healthy food, Cas. Maybe Sam ate rabbit food in front of the kid one too many times.”

They get into the Impala, and Dean turns the key. Once again, there’s no sound, and for a moment, he forgets. “Dammit, Jack!” he yells, when he remembers, and he thumps one hand down on the steering wheel.

“What’s wrong, Dean?” Jack pipes up from the back seat, and Dean nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Son of a bitch! Warn a man next time, Jack!”

“Hello, Jack,” says Cas.

“Why do you keep comparing my mother to a dog, Dean?” Jack asks.

“Yes, it took me a while to understand that one as well,” says Cas. “It’s not literal. Humans are very creative when they swear.”

“I see,” says Jack and turns back to Dean. “You called me. You seem upset.” 

Dean almost pops a blood vessel. “Seem… No, Jack, I’m not upset, I’m damn angry. You fucked with my Baby. No one fucks with my Baby.”

“Dean is talking about the global eradication of petroleum gas,” says Cas, helpfully.

“Ah,” says Jack. He turns to Dean again. “I thought you wanted me to reverse Chuck’s destruction of Earth? Burning dinosaur bones to slowly kill the planet seemed to fit the criteria.”

“That never did make much sense to me,” says Cas.

“Fine!” Dean says, tight. He gets it, he does. Has known for a while that his beautiful V8 502 Big Block wasn’t exactly helping in the whole global warming shindig, but he misses that rumble under him, the sheer sense of power barely restrained. “But you don’t just _do_ things like that to a man. Not without _asking_. You hear me, son? This whole thing, the whole show, kid, it was about Team Free Will, and your first act, well.” Dean thinks he hears Cas huff a breath out, and he looks over at him, but Cas shakes his head, gently, gestures at him that he’s fine.

“You’re disappointed in me,” says Jack. “I’m sorry, Dean. Do you want me to put it back?”

“Not… like. Not gas. Like, I don’t want _pollution_ back.” Cas and Jack both cock their heads and if he wasn’t furious with his own wheedling tone, he’d laugh at them. He almost does. “Just the, the sound? Can I have the sound back?” 

He knows that’s ridiculous. There’s not a lot of logic in any of this. He’ll always know there’s no mechanical reason his car is making that sound. Even if Baby had had to be scrapped for some reason, he could never have gotten one of those new-fangled cars for the simple reason that you never knew what the heck was going on under the hood. No mechanical sparks, no points, no carburetor. He feels a tiny burn, a prickle in his eyes and blinks it away.

“If you need it to make sense, Dean, I can make it some kind of fuel-cell thing with a hydro component. It could even still have pistons. And the exhaust will just be water vapour.”

“Really?” It’s pathetic how grateful he sounds.

“Of course,” says Jack brightly. “It’s done. Try the key again.” 

Dean turns the key, and Baby purrs to life. “There you are, girl!” He pats her dash. 

Jack smiles. “I’ll remember what you said about asking, Dean.”

“So will I,” says Castiel.

Dean looks at Cas, oddly, but Cas just looks very serious and intent, and inscrutable.

“Goodbye again,” says Jack. And he vanishes.

“Pie,” says Dean, as he looks over his shoulder to reverse out. “I forgot to ask him about pie. There had really, seriously, better still be pie.” 

* * *

There’s still pie. Good pie. Cherry and apple, today, with a crumbly pastry that has just the right amount of butter in it. He shovels another forkful into his face, and closes his eyes. It’s fucking erotic, that’s what it is. He feels warm all over, feels how good the pie is in his toes. He can’t help the little moan that escapes from his throat but when he opens his eyes to check Cas isn’t judging him, the man is just gazing at him with doe eyes.

“What?” he says through his mouthful. “S’good pie.”

“I can see that, Dean. I told you, I like it when you’re happy.” 

Dean can’t actually remember if Cas told him that, but it fits with the rest of it. 

He swallows, gulps down some coffee, and smacks his lips. “Okay, we should start a list. That kindergarten on Chestnut and Railway that you pointed out on our way in.” He pulls over his notebook and opens it, uncaps the pen with his teeth. He writes, _NEW KINDERGARTEN_ at the top of a new bullet list.

“No ashtrays,” says Cas.

“Huh. No ashtrays. No cigarettes?”

“Not that I’ve seen.”

“But there’s beer. We had beer last night. And the bar is still there.” He writes down, _CIGARETTES_ and then beneath that, _DRUGS?_ “Let’s take a walk.”

Cas stands up immediately. Dean throws a few bills on the table, throws back the last of the coffee, grabs his jacket off the back of the chair.

It’s barely 10 in the morning. The sun is shining, the sky is blue — the kind of blue with white clouds that they put in photos in fancy wall calendars. It’s warm, but not too warm. He puts his jacket back on over his shirt anyhow.

There are people walking in the street, some holding hands. Kids playing. He watches them, listens to the sounds of laughter, the squeals. It’s such a contrast to the terrifying silence of the empty town they were in just days before. He realises how little he ever really took in about this town, how little they know their neighbours in Lebanon. Certainly not enough to know if these are the same kids, or if Jack populated the world with random new people, or played mix’n’match. It’s a seriously discomfiting thought: parents with the wrong kids, and no one the wiser. Like that freak 1950s town Cas told him about, where Sam thought he was some woman’s husband, and happy as anything about it. He shudders.

“Dammit,” he says. “Ain’t got a clue what we’re even looking for, really. Do these kids look familiar to you?”

“Not exactly,” says Cas. “I don’t pay a lot of attention to children’s faces. They change too quickly. There’s no point memorising them. But I can tell you that the general distribution of attributes is unchanged. Weight, height, gender, skin tones.”

“That’s a start,” says Dean.

They head to the convenience store, which looks the same as ever. Dean comes out with three different flavours of kibble and has loaded Cas up with a tray of cans, and Sam’s newspaper tucked under one arm. 

“Outback Kangaroo Feast?” Cas says, as they walk back to the car. “Happy Hips? Beaverdam? Where do they get these names? Lamb and sweet potato stew,” he reads. “Actually, that one doesn’t sound bad.”

“Better than that ‘Taste of the Wild’ crapola. Thought it sounded okay until I saw ‘roasted quail’ and ‘smoked turkey’. Gimme a break. My dog does not need to eat better’n me.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” says Cas. “We could get Miracle _and_ you roasted quail. Who says you don’t deserve better?” 

Dean laughs at him. They toss the food and the newspaper in the back seat, and pull away from the curb, Baby rumbling gently under his hands, Led Zeppelin playing from the cassette.

As they leave Lebanon and turn onto the road to take them back to the bunker, Dean thinks about all the lives that might have been, the different versions of the timeline ahead. The ones Sam told him about where they killed each other. The one where they turned into werewolves or vampires and Bobby and Jody killed them. The one where he was stuck in a Ma'lak box for eternity going slowly mad from the Mark of Cain. The pointless one he always feared, dying on some random, meaningless hunt, killed by a rusty nail or falling down a hole and snapping his neck, wrapping up some mess his Dad left unfinished. All of those awful, meaningless ends, performing his pain for someone else’s twisted pleasure. 

Well, stuff all of them. He does deserve more, he realises. He does deserve Cas. He looks across at him, in the passenger seat of his car, and puts his hand between them, palm down, in case he misread the gesture yesterday. He looks back ahead, and doesn’t dare to hope. It takes a moment, but he feels Cas cover his hand with his own, and intertwine their fingers. Dean keeps his eyes firmly on the road and they drive on.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So, is there a reason for your call, Donna?” asks Cas. Dean catches himself gazing gratefully at Cas and then realises the irony — oh no, he is not going to turn into Sam. Uh uh. He squares his shoulders, and clears his throat. He’s pretty sure no one’s noticed.
> 
> “Ope, ja. Almost forgot!” she says. “I got a missing person for ya. Thought it was a late report of y’know, when everybody disappeared, but no, this one was just three days ago. But no record of a Greta Olson. Then I thought ghost, maybe, but we’ve got photographs. It’s a complicated one, that’s for sure. Vanished mid-kiss. Like a reverse fairy-tale. But without the frog.”
> 
> [In which Dean and Cas follow up a case in which the girl in question is no ordinary girl — in more ways than one.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is really important to both of us — we promise only lovely things happen but if you're worried or feeling fragile, we've added some spoilers in the end notes.
> 
> Thank you so, so much to Josie for the sensitivity read, and to badrituals and CallenOftheNorth for the beta reads. Obviously any remaining errors are all ours. (Phoenix also wants to thank jad & Huntress on the ProfoundBond server for writing advice that seriously improved the story — thank you!!!)

As the weeks go on, the relief gives way to boredom. Sam and Eileen spend most days in the library, writing down everything they remember about the chronology of the last few months, what was tried, what wasn’t. The spells they used and where they got the ingredients. Which things worked and which failed miserably, crushed by Chuck with no effect or useless at the last minute because of perverse incentives, crossed wires, false information. They check what they remember with everyone else’s memories, cross-reference with ancient texts, and add cards to the index. After the seventeenth time they’ve had to rip up a card because they both created one, but indexed it slightly differently, Sam starts to talk about digitising the whole shebang and yeah, Dean would do anything not to be involved with that tedious hell of a job. He’s grateful for archivists, don’t get him wrong — accurate information well filed has saved his bacon more times than he can count, but book work is not for him. He’s itching to get his hands dirty. 

He spends a little time reading up on the new fuel-cell engines, and more time under Baby, working out what he’ll still be able to fix himself. She even smells different — electric-metallic instead of the tang of gas and oil — and he tries not to be cranky about it. Evenings are spent having a quiet drink with everyone in the map room, or hanging out with Cas down in the den, watching reruns of Dr Sexy and introducing Cas to the genius of films like _Drunken Angel_ and _The Hidden Fortress_. They hold hands more often than not, and at night, they curl into each other. Castiel kisses Dean on the forehead and says, “I love you,” and Dean looks back at him, every night, and says, “See you in the morning, Cas,” and it means the same thing. Cas still doesn’t sleep, but he’s there when Dean wakes up, every day.

Sam and Eileen don’t say anything about the new sleeping arrangements and Dean isn’t about to volunteer for that conversation, but apart from that, Dean’s more content than he can remember.

They’re in the library one afternoon, Eileen bent over Sam’s scrawled notes trying to decipher something, Sam lost in writing more scrawl, pausing every so often to tuck a loose strand of hair behind one ear. Eileen keeps smiling fondly at him and Dean just about to say something about it when his other-other phone rings. It’s Donna, and he puts it on speaker.

“Hello?”

“Well, hi, boys! How’s it goin’?”

“Good, Donna,” says Sam, leaning towards the phone. “Everything okay? I’m uh… surprised to hear from you.”

“Well, sure, Sam. What, did you think I’d get some deputy to call you? Uff da, course I’m going to call you boys myself! Ya been well? I heard Eileen is living with you now.” 

Sam signs a translation to Eileen as he says, “Hang on, switch to video…” and Dean presses the button and angles the screen towards her so she can read what’s going on. 

“Hi, Donna,” Eileen says, once it’s connected. Donna’s outside, next to her car, her uniform neat as always. She waves at them from the small screen. “Nice to meet you, finally.”

“And you, kiddo. I was real sorry when I thought we lost you. Our Sam here needs a steady hand, you know? You two been keeping busy with all your documentin’?”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Sam. “Almost done. How about you?”

“Oh, I’ve been busy too. I started a support network for ex-hunters, don’cha know, support groups, to talk about all the trauma. Got chapters in eight states now. Got to talking about retraining and thought maybe you could take that on, you and Eileen.”

“Like a school?” asks Eileen.

“You betcha. School of Letters, I thought.”

“I quite like the idea of that,” Eileen says, looking up at Sam with a cheeky smile. “You’d make a great teacher, Sam.” 

“So would you. Professor Eileen Leahy, School of Letters.” She blushes, and grins back at him. 

Dean’s eyes are already half-way up their roll before he even notices he’s done it. Goddamn gooey rubbish. He shakes it off.

“So, is there a reason for your call, Donna?” asks Cas. Dean catches himself gazing gratefully at Cas and then realises the irony — oh no, he is _not_ going to turn into Sam. Uh uh. He squares his shoulders, and clears his throat. He’s pretty sure no one’s noticed.

“Ope, ja. Almost forgot!” she says. “I got a missing person for ya. Thought it was a late report of y’know, when everybody disappeared, but no, this one was just three days ago. But no record of a Greta Olson. Then I thought ghost, maybe, but we’ve got photographs. It’s a complicated one, that’s for sure. Vanished mid-kiss. Like a reverse fairy-tale. But without the frog.” 

“Any leads?” asks Dean.

“If it’s a ghost,” says Sam, “it’ll be the first one I’ve heard of since the Rapture.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?” Donna says. “Not a fan.”

“We’re still working on it.” says Eileen. “I vetoed Doomsday. I like ‘The Cataclysm’.”

“Apocalypse was taken,” argues Sam. 

“I still don’t see what’s wrong with Armageddon,” Cas says.

Dean clears his throat. “Any leads?” he asks again, tersely.

“Oh, ja,” says Donna. “Sorry, that’s why I called. We think we have a brother in juvie, thought you could come down and do an interview.” 

* * *

Their first stop is an address in St Paul. Dean takes the steps up to the porch two at a time and rings the doorbell. The olive green wooden siding is a bit much next to the cream and the dark green shutters kind of clash, if you ask him, but no one did, so he keeps it to himself. It’s not one of those big Victorian numbers you get out here sometimes, but it’s nothing to sneeze at — two storeys, a bay window, double garage. The kid who answers the door seems to be the boyfriend — Carter Larson, according to Donna, age 17. He’s an inch shorter than Dean, blond and square-jawed. There’s a moment where he’s eager, hopeful, his hazel eyes darting between Dean and Cas and then he realises there’s no one else with them. His eyes fall, his shoulders slump, and he shoves his hands in the pockets of his letter jacket as he steps back to let them in. 

They introduce themselves to his parents, and they’re ushered into a simple lounge with a dark grey sofa and two checkered arm chairs that match the khaki and gold cushions. Dean settles himself down next to Carter and Cas perches on one of the chairs. Once the kid’s mom leaves to get them all a drink, Carter retrieves a carefully folded strip of photographs from the inside of his jacket — the kind that comes out of those cheesy photobooths you only find in old malls. His expression sweetens as he passes it to Dean.

“This is us, taken a week before,” he says. “We went to a movie for the first time. Held hands. It was our first real date.”

Dean looks at the photo of the two kids, and his mouth curves up slightly. Carter is in a crisp button up shirt, smiling broadly. His arm is wrapped around a beautiful girl, a year younger than him, if that, nothing immediately remarkable about her: green eyes, a pale complexion and long wavy honey brown hair. She’s wearing a mint sweater and a floral skirt. About 5’8’’? Dean’s no expert, but the dress looks a little dated somehow. She’s smiling too, but Dean notices her expression is a little far away, like she’s remembered something important just as the photos were taken. Carter, on the other hand, looks like he’s having the best day of his life. 

Maybe she’s a ghost after all.

He shows them to Cas and then, after a long moment Dean passes the pictures back to Carter. “Can you tell me what happened the night she disappeared?” Dean asks. 

Dean’s eyes narrow subtly, searching for signs that Carter had something to do with it. He notices Cas doing the same. 

“I get that you think I did something,” Carter says. “It’s the obvious, right? Pretty girl disappears, so the usual story is the dude offed her and pretends to be shattered.”

Cas opens his mouth but Dean steps in too quickly. “Just tell us, in your own words. You’d be surprised what we believe.”

Carter looks out the window, and his expression goes soft, remembering. “We went for a walk down the river. We’d been seeing each other for three months but we hadn’t… done anything yet. We were just walking, holding hands like usual, and I was waiting for the right moment.”

“The right moment?” asks Cas.

“To kiss her,” say Dean and Carter at the same time. Carter grins at Dean, connection established.

“Yeah,” he says. “But when I did, she disappeared.”

“Ran away?” asks Dean. “Freaked out?”

“No, like… disappeared. One minute I was kissing her and then she was gone. One of my hands was on her face and the other was on her shoulder and then she wasn’t there.”

“The police said there was no one by that name when you reported her missing.”

Carter’s head droops. “Yeah, I heard.”

“And that the fingerprints on the note you gave them tracked to a Grant Olson,” Dean says. “You got something you want to tell us about that?” He ain’t about to judge anyone for being into dudes considering his own, uh, circumstances right now, but even to his eyes, the chick in the photo doesn’t look like anyone named Grant he’s ever seen before.

“I don’t know anything about that,” says Carter. He sounds like he’s telling the truth, to Dean’s ears. He’s got a reasonable idea what it sounds like when someone is evading a question about their sexuality, to his own chagrin.

“Did she tell you she had a brother?” asks Castiel. It’s the only answer Donna has come up with, that somehow Grant is Greta’s brother and helped write the note or handled the note somehow.

“No — she never mentioned anything about her family, really.”

“Well,” says Dean. “You think of anything, you give us a call, okay?” He hands over a card, with ‘William Gibbons, youth worker’ emblazoned on it. “We’ll do our best to find your girl.”

* * *

Dean pulls the Impala into an empty spot in the parking lot outside the large red-brick building with Stillwater Juvenile Correctional Facility on a drab grey sign facing a row of identical pines. As he gets out of the car, he looks up at the barred windows and thinks about himself at 16, remembers his own experiences in Hurleyville, and he’s really glad it wasn't a place like this.

Cas closes Baby’s door and steps up next to Dean. He pulls out his government-issued youth worker ID and checks it’s the right way up, which makes Dean proud in a weird, warm way. 

They walk up to the main doors and flash their ID at security, put their wallets and phones into the plastic tubs on the conveyor belt, step through the metal detector. The young guy who’s been assigned to take them down to the interview room with Grant is overly perky, a freckled redhead who apparently wanted to be a youth worker and instead ended up as an orderly. If Dean has to answer one more question about how he got into the career, he might bite the guy’s head off. On top of that, every step into the facility makes it more and more clear that it would have been impossible for Grant to have just popped out for a few dates.

Eventually, they arrive at a room with high ceilings that’s clearly intended to look sunny and open, all blond wood and cheerful orange accents. Pity about the electronic locks on the door, you know? Dean and Cas step through and Freckles eagerly lets them know he’ll be just outside if they need anything at all.

Grant is slouching on one of the chairs in the room, and he looks up when he hears the door open but doesn’t get up. 

It seriously takes Dean a moment to recover his cool. The kid is the spitting image of Greta, identical but for the close cropped hair and the outfit — white tee, basic jeans. He’s wearing a slim chain around his neck and a little silver hoop in his left ear.

“Holy shit, you look like your sister,” he exclaims, before he can think of more tactical approaches.

“My what?” asks Grant.

“Your sister?” repeats Dean. “Identical twin I’m guessing. The one who was dating Carter Larson.”

“Is Carter okay?” Grant asks, urgently. He’s leaned forward, intent on the answer. “I didn’t mean… Does he know… _Fuck._ ” Grant rubs his hand across his face, back down his jaw and across the back of his neck, one anxious movement that’s clearly well practiced. 

_Okayyyy_ , Dean thinks. _Someone somewhere in this story isn’t telling the truth._

Cas tilts his head to the side and frowns. “That’s very interesting,” he says. “You seem to know Carter but Carter doesn’t know who you are.”

Grant looks at the floor, and if Dean can read body language at all, that’s shame he’s seeing. Huh.

“Carter’s fine,” Dean says. “Y’know, apart from the part where he’s worried sick about his _girlfriend_ , who seems to have _disappeared_. You wanna tell us what you know about that, buddy?”

“Not particularly,” Grant says, to the floor. He makes a strange gesture, like he’s tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear, and Dean figures he must’ve had long hair before juvie and he’s still not used to the military length. He looks up at the security camera in the corner of the room.

“It’s okay. I get it. I’ve got a baby brother, ‘n’ I’m pretty protective of him too. But if your sister is in some kind of trouble, chances are, we’re her best bet right now.”

Grant gives Dean a very strange look, and then seems to realise something. “My sister. Right.” Maybe they’re giving the kid sedatives, thinks Dean. He’s not very quick on the uptake here. 

Just after Dean thinks that, there’s a tiny tickle in the back of his mind, something _he’s_ missing.

They sit in silence for a moment, and then Dean stands up. “Look, kid. We haven’t got all day. We’re gonna go have a little chat with the warden, and then maybe you and us can take a stroll in the yard. Have a think about what I said, okay?”

Cas pushes his chair back and they both leave the room. 

In the corridor, Freckles stands up so fast he almost knocks his chair over.

“Uh, you,” says Dean, flicking through the clipboard in his hands before he looks up. “Freckles. Paperwork says the kid’s in for theft. Anything unusual about the case?”

“Well,” Freckles says, leaning forward conspiratorially, “Since you mention it, there was this one thing. In the CCTV footage, I woulda swore I was looking at a chick. Really good disguise! If he’d been less _hopeless_ as a thief, but he left fingerprints everywhere…”

“Huh,” says Dean.

“Is that the sort of thing you meant?” asks Freckles.

“It’s very helpful,” says Cas.

“Have you got an incident record around here?” asks Dean.

“Uh, sure thing,” says Freckles. “I’ll get it from the office and I’ll be right back. You stay here, you betcha.”

After Freckles leaves, Cas immediately turns to Dean. “Not entirely human but not a monster either. Obviously. Shifter?”

“I thought that at first, too,” says Dean. “But first up, no more shifters, right? Secondly, I’m pretty sure that necklace was silver. And who heard of a shifter just becoming a female version of themselves? Why not become a guard and walk right out of here? It doesn’t add up.”

Freckles comes back with the incident report and it’s pretty much what Dean was expecting. Dammit, they need to get this kid out of here before someone puts him in a coma or before he hurts himself. They get permission from Freckles to take Grant for a walk in the yard, to see if being in a more relaxed environment helps him to open up.

They walk out into the sunlight, and away from Freckles and the guards stationed at the door. Once they’re pretty much out of hearing range, Dean quietly says, “So, Greta…” 

“Yeah?” says the kid, without thinking, and then even more quietly, “Fuck.”

“You wanna tell us what’s really going on?”

“You wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me. We know you’re Greta. We know it’s not a wig, or a costume, or some kind of a disguise to commit crimes.”

The kid balls their hands up into fists, digs their nails into their palms. “You won’t — laugh at me? You won’t think I’m a monster?”

“Of course not,” says Cas. “There are no more monsters. You are a creation of the divine.”

Dean almost scowls at Cas — that’s hardly youth worker language. Sounds like it verges on weirdo religious talk that’s more likely to scare the kid off. But the look on his face is sheer relief. Hmm. 

“We won’t hurt you, or tell anyone you don’t want us to tell neither. Go on.”

“Thought I was dreaming at first. I’ve always —” The kid trails off, looks around, starts again. “ — always known I was a girl. And I’ve always been a girl in my dreams. So I just thought this was a dream too.”

“The robbery?”

“It was so nice, trying on dresses. I knew I couldn’t afford them. And I didn’t seem to have a wallet or a bag but I thought it was a dream, you know? But I didn’t want to take it off, it looked so pretty. And so I just walked out. And when the alarms went off, I ran, and I hid in an old, empty house. And when I went to sleep, I woke up in my bedroom again.”

“But the fingerprints tracked it to you.”

“Yeah. And no one would believe me that I’d been home all day.”

“When did you work out it was real?”

“When they showed me the footage.”

“And so, what… you can teleport? How come that doesn’t set off alarms here, when you poof out of existence?”

“Because I don’t. Poof out of existence.”

“You bilocate,” says Cas, wonderingly. Grant — Greta? — frowns and tucks non-existent hair behind an ear again, then scratches at one shoulder with the other hand. “You’re in two places at once,” Cas explains. “You’re not the first. Historically, they’ve usually been lauded as saints, not locked up. But, I doubt Anthony of Padua stole dresses…”

“So this some kind of astral projection? Or more like a clone situation?” Dean is trying very hard not to sound as confused as he is, but the logistics are twisting his head a little. 

“To start with, I had to really concentrate to be in both places — like if someone bumped into me here, I’d lose the connection but I got better and better at it. I guess when Carter… I just got overwhelmed.” He — wait, Dean thinks. If the kid says she’s a girl, then he guesses he’d better switch how he thinks of her in his head. _She_ looks at the ground again, blushing fiercely, and Dean has to remind himself she’s just a teenager.

“Sounds about right,” he says, reassuringly. “I would not be your age again if you paid me. Body out of control.” He shudders. “Okay, we’ve got some things to sort out but leave this with us, okay?”

Greta nods, slow and disbelieving. Dean signals to Freckles, who was watching them like a hawk from across the yard.

“Are you gonna tell Carter?” asks Greta. 

“Do you want us to?” asks Dean. 

“Would you? Please? I wouldn’t know where to start,” Greta says. Dean nods and squeezes her shoulder. 

He watches as Greta walks back inside with the guard, and then stares into the middle distance, frowning. “We’ve got to get her out. Soon.” 

“I agree.” Cas replies, flatly. “Her powers will put her at grave risk.”

“No, not the projection or whatever.” Dean shakes his head, turning away from Cas slightly as memories surface of his time in the boys’ home. “I mean, yes of course that’s a whole thing, but I meant who she is. You see Cas, places like this are… hard for anyone who doesn’t play the game. If she’s stuck here too long, she's going to have a choice — either come out and get eaten alive, or turn hard and pretend she’s… she’s…” His voice catches as he remembers that choice; of that harsh numbness he carried before his angel laid his hands on him and his light released him. It’s going to be even worse for her, he realises. Dean was a guy who wanted to be softer, who liked looking at the other boys sometimes, liked it when Rhonda let him try on her panties. Greta isn’t a boy at all.

* * *

Cas and Dean walk across the grass of the football field where Carter told them to meet him. He’s sitting on the bleachers, looking at his phone, swinging one leg nervously. He stands up when they get close.

“We found her…" Dean begins, as soon as they get within earshot. He doesn’t have a chance to finish before Carter hugs him tightly out of nowhere, overcome with relief. Dean hesitates for a moment before he lets himself half-return the hug. 

"Oh, thank god,” Carter says. “Is she okay?" He steps back to look at them both. 

Dean raises his hands reassuringly, his face calm. "She will be. She's in juvie right now, but we're getting her somewhere she'll be safe." Dean resists the urge to tell him to calm down; he’d be freaking out too. 

"Can I see her?” Carter pleads, his face awash with a mix of relief and giddy urgency. “Why is she in juvie? What the hell happened?"

"Yeah, she wants to see you. Like I said, there's a bit of wrangling that's gotta happen first. But there's something more we need to tell you first." Dean pauses, his gaze darting to Cas, uncertain.

"Do you want me to tell him?" Cas asks gently. 

"No, it's fine... she asked me to do it, so I'll do it." 

Carter looks at them both confused. "Tell me… what?"

Dean clears his throat. "The thing is, kid, your girlfriend has a kind of… gift. You see, um, the Greta who you met was a kind of psychic projection. She was there, physically, but that wasn't her body."

Carter freezes, staring into the middle distance. 

"Not her body," he repeats woodenly, before turning to Dean with a frown. "That makes a weird kind of sense, actually. I mean, she literally vanished in front of me. Everyone thinks I'm crazy or that I did something or that I'm lying but she really did disappear. I was beginning to think I was losing it."

“Yeah,” says Dean. “You’re not losing it but kid, the thing is, when you ask to see her — Greta doesn't exactly look how you might remember." 

"What do you mean?" Carter looks confused again, poor guy. Dean really has to remember not everyone has been dealing with this shit for 15 years.

“When humans psychically co-locate, they often appear as an idealised version of themselves,” Cas says plainly, as though that was somehow a straightforward statement.

It definitely hasn’t helped Carter any. "Is that supposed to mean something?”

Dean clambers for a point of reference. “You know how sometimes you meet someone online and they’re not exactly who you think they are?”

"But I met her,” Carter says. “In real life. And besides, she’d never lie to me."

Dean looks at his feet, before turning to Castiel, lips pursed. "Can we have a moment, Cas?"

Castiel glances between the two humans before nodding and walking back towards the car. Dean's eyes follow him for a moment before turning back to Carter.

"Greta's trans," Dean says, straight up. "The Greta you met was a projection of how she sees herself. Her time with you was the first time she got to be her real self. That photo you showed us — like, that’s her but with long hair and a few more curves, y’know?"

Carter nods. "Huh," he says simply. "…yeah, okay." He looks out over the field, brow furrowed.

A long moment passes. 

"Don't be angry with her, kid. She wanted to tell you… it's just… hard to explain, ya know? Especially with the whole psychic projection thing." Dean silently chuckles. So much for the idea that maybe life would get a little less complicated post-Apocalypse. Armageddon. Whatever.

“I don’t care what she looks like. I…” Carter breaks off, and screws his eyes up tight for a second, but it doesn’t stop the tears escaping down his cheek. "It must have been so hard… for her, I mean. Not being able to tell me. Not being able to tell anyone."

Thank goodness, Dean thinks. This kid really loves her. He wasn’t sure what he would have said to Greta if Carter had reacted poorly.

Dean bites his lip before standing up a little straighter. "Want my advice, kid?" he asks, his voice kind but serious. "Don't spend too much time second-guessing. Don't waste your shot. I almost lost mine."

Carter follows Dean’s gaze towards the car, nodding as he joins the dots. "But... how? I want to make this work but we're just kids... how do I not mess this up?

"I kinda like the campground rule, these days. Always leave things better, more cared for, than when you got there. Except she’s not a place to visit, kid. She’s a person. I can’t tell you what to do. Ask her what she needs. It might take her a while for her to know herself... So keep asking, and keep listening.” Dammit, that’s advice he’s gonna have to take himself.

“One last thing, though,” Dean says. “We’re getting her out of juvie, but the only way we can make this work for her is to get her to live with some friends of ours, a ways from here. I’m sorry, I wish it could have been closer, but it’s for the best.”

“So I get to see her, but then I have to say goodbye?” 

“It’s just for now. She needs somewhere she’ll be safe.” He hopes he’s making the right decision.

* * *

They pull up on Mill Street, a little way away from the Science Museum. Greta gets out of the Impala, and walks them down to the riverside. Dean’s guessing that Carter said to meet where he kissed her as part of a last test that it’s really her, and on one hand he doesn’t blame the kid. On another, he knows that the second he sees her, he won’t have any doubts. It’s overcast, and the chill in the air is hinting at the weather to come.

Carter is standing with his back to them, hands on the railing, looking out over the Mississippi River, but he turns around as they approach.

“Greta?” he says, tentative, taking a step forward.

“Yeah, it’s me,” she says, her voice tiny. Dean and Cas hang back to let them talk, but she’s asked for them to stay, and Dean is feeling protective anyhow.

“Your hair!” Carter exclaims. He bounces on the balls of his feet, like he wants to reach out but isn’t sure what’s welcome yet.

Greta runs a hand over the stubble self-consciously. “Yeah, um. Hopefully it’ll grow back quickly.” She looks away.

It’s as if Carter makes a decision, his movements suddenly confident and sure. He touches her on the shoulder and she looks back at him. He pulls her in for a hug, and she melts into his arms gratefully. After a few moments, he steps back, holding her away to inspect her a little. “Wait,” he says. “Are you… taller?” She’s still a few inches shorter than him, but now that Carter mentions it, Dean can see it too…

Her eyes well with tears, and she shrinks down. “I’m so sorry, I never meant to mislead you,” she says, her voice breaking. 

“Hey, hey…” says Carter, pulling her close again. “You didn’t. I know that was really you, and I know this is still you,” he says into her hair. “Besides, I like tall girls.” 

She looks up at him, eyes shining. 

Dean looks at his watch, and then at the sky again. “I don’t want to break up the party,” he says, “but if we’re gonna make it in time for dinner, we need to get going.”

Greta nods, and she wipes a sniffly nose on her forearm. She doesn’t make any move to leave though.

“I’ll call you in the morning?” Carter says, stroking his fingertips across her lower back.

“Okay,” says Greta. She’s blushing. “I know it’s a four-hour-drive… I don’t expect…” She does go to move away then, but Carter isn’t letting her go.

“I don’t know if it’ll work out before then,” he says, “but I’ll be 18 in two months and then I’ll drive out and we’ll be together. You’ll see, it’ll go so quickly you won’t notice.” He holds her tight, then pulls back again, but this time it’s to lean in and kiss her. Dean looks away awkwardly at Cas when it starts to get a little heated. He coughs, low, and they break apart reluctantly, holding hands until the last second, their fingertips trailing against each other outstretched until they finally let go.

They walk back to the car, and get in. Greta looks behind them for as long as she can, watching Carter getting smaller as they drive away but once they turn onto Spring Street, the apartments block their view of the waterfront and she reluctantly faces the future. 

* * *

Dean leans his elbow on the open window as he drives. Cas is next to him in the passenger seat again, and he could get used to that. Greta is behind Cas, still dressed in juvie denim and basic tee, but when he glances back, there’s something subtle she’s done with the way she holds herself, the way she’s leaning against the window, staring at the endless plains, that makes him think of Claire. State route 60 is miles and miles of empty space, flat green fields to both sides. It’s a kind of peace.

They finally get to Worthington, where they turn onto I90 and then they’re only an hour out from Jody’s. He can barely believe they’re doing this, still has moments when he’s suddenly hit by the memory of that vast emptiness of the world, the magnitude of that desolate, unpopulated planet. For a split-second, the despair of a world without Cas is overlaid in mind-bending double-vision onto reality, and he has to dig his fingertips into the steering wheel to reassure himself he ain’t dreaming or trapped in some Djinn’s perfect fantasy. 

He glances to the side for the thousandth time, just to see that Cas is still there. Maybe Cas is thinking something similar, because whenever he looks, Cas is looking right back. He puts his hand out, like they do these days, and Cas twines their fingers together without looking down. 

A few minutes later, there’s a tiny gasp from the back seat, and Greta says, suspiciously, “Are you two _really_ youth workers?”

Castiel looks down at their hands and then over his shoulder. “It’s a long story,” he says. 

Heading into the outskirts of the city, there’s a crowd outside a church, protest signs held high. He slows down to decipher the slogans — “THE SON OF LIES TRICKED US” reads one. “TAKE US!” reads another. 

_What on Earth is going on?_ Dean thinks. And then he spots a third sign, which reads “THE RAPTURE STOPPED BECAUSE OF YOUR SINS!” and he starts to unpack it. It’s echoes of Chuck’s little annihilation party. Some of the signs are wack. 

Just as he’s thinking that, Greta asks, “What does ‘WE WILL MEET THE LORD IN THE AIR!’ mean?”

Dean says, “Who knows?” at the same time as Cas says, “Thessalonians.”

Dean and Greta both say, “What?” and then Dean tunes out Cas’s convoluted explanation about mistranslations from the Aramaic.

They drive a little further. Dean remembers this stretch of Sioux Falls; it’s like there’s a church every few blocks. The next one has a classic white sign-board out front with black metal letters spelling out, “I AM IN EVERY DROP OF FALLING RAIN, SAITH THE LORD. EVERY SPECK OF DUST THAT THE WIND BLOWS. AND IN THE SAND, AND THE ROCKS, AND THE SEA. — Book of Jack, 26:8-13”. Cas reads out another one from the other side: “HE FORGIVES AND CURES THE MONSTROUS. MICHAEL 10:8.”

“How do they know what Jack said to us…?” starts Dean, and then it comes to him, just as Cas says it too. 

“Prophets,” they say.

“Fucking prophets,” Dean adds. 

“Do I want to know what else is real?!” Greta exclaims. 

Dean chuckles, wryly. “Probably not,” he says. 

“Is it just me,” asks Cas, “Or are they working at cross purposes?” 

“It’s like they’re all only getting a part of the story…” muses Dean.

“There used to be one prophet per archangel,” Cas says. “Maybe Jack liked that set-up? Or it’s a cosmic prank…”

“He’s not the Messiah, he's just a very naughty boy…” says Dean.

“Sadly, thanks to Metatron, I got that reference,” says Cas, drily, tapping the side of his head. “Sometimes I wish I didn’t…” 

“I didn’t…” says Greta. “Get the reference, I mean.”

Dean laughs and claps Cas on the shoulder. “Just a silly old movie,” he says, and pulls into Jody’s driveway.

Jody comes out of the house wiping her hands down on her jeans. She shakes her head at Dean as he climbs out of the car, then steps up and wraps him up in a big hug, standing on her toes. 

“What do you think this is, Dean Winchester?” she says, mock-serious. “A Home for Wayward Girls?”

“Yes, Jody, that’s exactly what I think,” says Dean. “That’s why I brought you another one.” He grins at her. She’s looking good — unlike some of the others, those last days of Chuck terrorising everyone were mercifully brief for her. 

Greta steps out behind him, and Jody sizes her up and nods. “This her?”

“Uh huh,” Dean responds. “Heard you didn’t have enough of them, you know? Jody, Greta. Greta, Jody.”

“Hey, Greta,” says Jody. “Welcome to our humble abode. Come on in and meet everyone — I think you’re going to fit right in. No need to be shy.”

Cas grabs Greta’s bag from the Impala, and they all head into the house.

“Mmmm,” Dean says, appreciatively. “Somethin’ smells damn fine, Jody.” He turns back to Greta. “You see why we had to book it, right?”

Before Greta can respond, Claire and Kaia come tumbling into the room, talking and laughing. “You’re here!” Kaia exclaims. “Hey, I’m Kaia. I think you’re more Claire’s size than mine — come on…”

“Uh, what’s happening?” says Greta, as she is swept up in the current.

“Makeover time,” says Claire. Jody’s grinning at them both. Cas raises an eyebrow. “What?” Claire continues. “Dean texted ahead.” 

The three of them disappear, chatting away as Jody and Dean share a proud parental smile. Dean hears Kaia saying she’s a dreamwalker and realises the two of them will have more in common than had even occurred to him. The kids are alright.

* * *

Half an hour later, Dean is leaning against the counter while Jody adds finishing touches to the meal, and hands him bowls of fragrant, steaming stew to take to the table.

“Dinner’s ready!” she calls up to the others.

Patience and Alex wander in from outside, and hang up their coats. Alex sits down as Patience heads into the kitchen to help Jody. Claire and Kaia are loitering in the door frame, gesturing into the corridor.

Dean’s glad he’s put the bowls down when Greta walks into the room, because he might have dropped something otherwise. She looks amazing — hair still too short, but long, dangly earrings with some kind of light blue stones brush her shoulders and soften that. He was worried that she was going to come down with bright red lipstick or something else inappropriate for a 16-year-old but he should have trusted Claire and Kaia more. The make-up is flawless — he’s terrible at that kind of thing so he doesn’t know exactly what they’ve done, just that her skin seems smoother, and she’s got some kind of light shine on her lips and gold and copper around her eyes. She’s wearing a gauzy loose top over a slender cream cami, with a silver chain belt, and a tan A-frame skirt. She also looks even taller, and suddenly he realises that it’s just because she’s stopped slouching.

He smiles at her. “Well, lookit you,” he says. “Better?”

She ducks her head a little. “Much. Thanks. I really don’t know what to say…”

“Yeah, none of that. Just, y’know. Don’t breach the conditions of your release here and make me look bad, okay?”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Then we’re all good. Who’s hungry? C’mon!” He sits down and grabs a large bowl of potatoes, serves himself a few, then takes a third one for insurance, and passes the rest down to Alex. Greta sits down next to Cas and then they’re all seated, a boisterous family sharing salad, and stew, pouring drinks and talking about their days. Dean exchanges a look with Cas more than once when he sees him smiling over something one of the girls has said. 

When they’ve all slowed down a bit, Jody pushes back her plate. “So what’ve you kids been up to, back at that bunker of yours?”

“Nothin’ much,” says Dean. “Almost started to think about whether we needed to retire the weapons, you know? No more hunting to do.” He shrugs.

“You could do that,” says Jody. “You don’t have to, though. There might not be demons and vamp nests any more, but people still make mistakes; there’s still magic and giftedness, and prophets — and human monsters.”

“That’s true,” allows Dean.

“So. That crack I made about the Home for Wayward Girls,” Jody says. “Might actually be serious about it.”

“What do you mean, Jody?” asks Cas.

It’s Patience who answers. “I’ve been seeing young people with powers — all over the country. We’re trying to work out how to set up a network to get them all to safe homes.”

“Seeing them?” asks Greta.

“Patience is clairvoyant,” explains Kaia.

Dean laughs. “And apparently she’s going all Professor X on us.”

“The latest one is a young queer telekinetic from Indiana named Eliot. We’ve connected him with some other kids in New York. But there’s too many of them, and we probably need a formal system to keep track of who’s ended up where,” says Claire.

“You asking us whether we want to be part of some secret cooperative supernatural rescue network?”

“Got something better to do?” challenges Jody.

Dean sits back, thinking, then mops up some of his stew with a hunk of bread that’s mostly crust. He chews, thoughtfully. “I guess I don’t.”

“Good. That’s settled, then,” says Jody. “Claire, can you get Greta situated, please? I already made up the bed.”

“Sure,” says Claire. The two of them stack their plates, and head out. 

“Kaia, can I talk to you about what’s left of the other worlds?” asks Cas. They head into the living room, already discussing the aftermath of Chuck’s destructive rampage through the multiverse. Patience and Alex start to clear the dishes, but Dean stops them.

“I’ll help wash up,” he says, stacking crockery and flatware. They don’t wait for him to have second thoughts about it, practically scampering out of the room and already talking about which movie they’ll set up for everyone to watch.

In the kitchen, Jody fills the sink with warm, sudsy water, and for a while they work without speaking.

Jody hands Dean another bowl to dry, and says, seemingly to the dishwater, “So you two finally got it together, huh? I’m happy for you.”

Dean is flustered. “We’re not… it isn’t… What do you mean, finally?” He glares at her, then takes a breath. This is Jody. He can say it. “I didn’t even know how _I_ felt about him until I was knee-deep in purgatory a few months ago.”

Jody looks at him askance. “Sure,” she says. “Look, I only met him the once but even then I could tell that angel loved you from a mile away. And then the way you two kept looking at each other tonight?”

“Did we?” Dean doesn’t mean for his voice to squeak like that and he mentally kicks himself for confirming all of her suspicions in one fell swoop.

“So, you haven’t, yet? That what you’re trying to tell me?” Jody prompts. “But not for lack of wanting.”

Dean rests the last glass on the rack, and dries his hands on the dish towel. “To be completely honest, I don’t know what I’m doing…”

Jody lets the water out of the sink, and takes the cloth from Dean to wipe her hands too. ”I figure you’ll know when the time comes. And if you have to work it out together, that’s okay too, y’know?”

“How do you always know the right thing to say, Jodes?” says Dean.

“Parental intuition, my friend.” She claps him on the back. “Can I interest you in a whiskey?” And there’s no possible future in which Dean is going to say no to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler: This chapter contains an original trans character but we promise nothing bad happens to her. There are references to dysphoria, references to feared reactions from loved ones that don't occur and references to the issues with being incarcerated in a single-sex institution that doesn't match your identity. The character is loved, has autonomy and choices and ends up being welcomed into a found family.
> 
> This isn't the first time we've worked on a story where we've found ourselves writing a young trans girl being rescued by the heroes of the story and delivered into a loving foster family (see [Dial 999](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23278204/chapters/55747330) if you want to read the other one). What can we say, it's definitely a form of taking care of our teenaged selves who needed rescuing and didn't have anyone. 
> 
> If you are young and trans and need help, here is a list of LGBTIQA+-friendly hotlines around the world: <https://liamrcarter.wordpress.com/2015/09/05/list-of-lgbt-friendly-helplines-worldwide/>
> 
> Stay safe, stay with us. We promise it gets better.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always we wanted to thank our beta readers, hanitrash and badrituals. 
> 
> upsidedownertron wanted to mention that this story is a reflection of both of our experiences with sex and sexuality, at various times, and that these experiences are layered and not simple. there's no one way to be ace or demi or experience discomfort or pleasure in sex. so, if you see an echo of your story in here, whether you use the labels we're using or not, those readings are valid. unlike certain networks that shall not be named, we encourage multiple interpretations. we love you and we see you.
> 
> phoenix would like to acknowledge that the conversation about the restructure of heaven wouldn't be the same without n_nami's fabulous [Through the Grapevine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27670441) which you should all go and read _after_ you read this. also thanks to the folks in the profoundbond writer's café — your support is invaluable.

“Cas, can you check the meat for me?” asks Dean.

Sam looks at him and raises an eyebrow. 

Dean rolls his eyes. “Not a euphemism. Actually need him to check the roast.” He holds up the cornbread he has in one hand and the plates he has in the other to demonstrate his current inability to do the task himself.

It’s the Sunday after they get back from Sioux Falls, and the first Sunday of the month is family dinner. It’s a new tradition, in the sense that this is the first time, but Dean is determined. Roast beef, root vegetables. He even put the vegetables in a different dish so Sam and Eileen can eat them too, and let Eileen make some rice pillow thing that’s yellow and has nuts and fruit in it. 

“Am I late?” asks Jack, appearing in the kitchen.

“Jack,” says Castiel, straightening up and stepping back from where he is checking the beef, just like Dean showed him. “Good to see you.” He wraps Jack up in a tight hug.

“You made it!” says Sam. “Wasn’t sure you would.” He too hugs Jack, towering over him by a good half a foot. He claps Jack on the back, before he lets him go, jaw twitching again. 

Dean sometimes wonders whether Sam’s okay — they both went through a lot in the last few years, but it sometimes feels like Sammy’s still on high alert. No idea what they’re supposed to do about that. His experience with therapists has not exactly been what you’d call positive and reassuring. He parks it to deal with it later and tunes back in to hear Jack filling Sam and Cas in on some detail of the Heaven overhaul.

“We’ve catalogued who we’ve got and the overlaps in scenarios, if that makes sense,” says Jack. “I am still overseeing it while I’m here of course. But I’m struggling a little with how we deal with couples where one has been spending their eternity in domestic bliss with their life partner and the other has essentially been reliving one debauched week from the end of high-school over and over. I wanted to speak with Castiel about it. In person. And I thought I would — what is the phrase? — mix business with pleasure.”

“Not during my Sunday dinner, though,” says Dean, gruffly. “You can wait till after for that.”

“Since when did we not talk about hunting at the dinner table, Dean?” says Sam. “You’ve changed, man.” He claps Dean on the shoulder and chuckles. Dean glares at him and finishes setting the table.

The meal is everything he’d hoped for — the roast beef juicy, red in the middle like it should be; the potatoes, squash and carrots soft and slightly sweet with rosemary and salt. Over the years, Dean’s taught himself the difference between a mediocre burger and a goddamned magnificent burger, and now he’s teaching himself how to make food that makes his mouth sing. 

He tips his cold Ghost White beer back and enjoys the sensation of the cool liquid down his throat, the smell of the hops, the taste of the yeast. 

It’s a far cry from El Sol and good ole Winchester surprise — seasoned ground beef and gooey American cheese, baked perfectly till the top was crunchy and he could break through it to dip in and pile a Frito high with casserole, over and over — but it has that same feel of family around the table, Sam laughing at something Cas said. 

It’s bittersweet. Thinking about Mom’s old dish makes him remember that there are still people missing — not just Mary, or Dad but people he hopes he’ll see one day in the big ole Roadhouse in Heaven, Jo and Ellen, Ash and so many others. But this’ll do just fine for now.

The others tip their beers back too, and everyone pushes back from the table a little, bellies satisfied, and they get ready to settle in and chew the fat. 

“Did you hear they cured cancer?” Sam offers, as a startling opener. No, Dean had not heard that. He’s had better things to do than the Internet. “I didn’t understand the details,” Sam continues. “Something to do with dehydrogenase kinase? But apparently it’s a universal cell, reverses every cancer they’ve tried it on. It’s incredible!”

“Dehydrated what?” asks Eileen. Sam spells it out, fingers flying, and Eileen laughs. “I shouldn’t have asked,” she signs and says.

“Did you have something to do with that, Jack?” asks Dean. “Thought you were stayin’ hands off.”

“I am,” says Jack. “I didn’t help them find the cure, if that’s what you’re asking. I’ve put all the tools at people’s disposal but now it’s up to humanity to make it work.”

“Seems like a lot of things are suddenly working,” says Cas.

“Let’s just say I’ve gotten out of their way,” Jack says. “Chuck made everything too hard. Towards the end he just dialed up the difficulty level — so many bad things. It felt like he was on his way to his old routine, you know, frogs, murder hornets, plague.” 

“We saying the books are writing themselves now?” asks Dean.

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” asks Jack. “Wasn’t that what Team Free Will was all about?”

“Guess I just assumed free will meant they were free to choose evil too.” Dean isn’t sure why he’s pissed about this but it feels too — neat, somehow. Sue him if he’s got a few trust issues after the life they’ve had.

“They are,” says Jack. “But it turns out that if you let people strive for good in a system that isn’t loaded against them, amazing things happen.”

“What’s your favourite so far, Jack?” asks Eileen.

Jack beams. “Oh, that’s hard to choose. I’m really glad you fixed the food distribution issues. I was surprised how rapidly that got sorted out. It’s nice not to have to listen to starving people begging for just one mouthful or a sip of water. And of course, that took out half the wars — so there are fewer people screaming in general.”

Sam stares at him, mouth hanging slightly open. “It never occurred to me that — wow, Jack.”

Cas has been nodding along as Jack spoke, and Dean exchanges a glance with him. “You too?”

“Yes,” says Castiel. “Not as much as Jack, of course, but it has definitely been more pleasant.”

Dean reaches out and squeezes Cas’s hand, and Cas squeezes back. Sam raises an eyebrow, and Eileen shakes her head minutely at him. Jack smiles, and Dean keeps his hand where it is, feeling exposed but brave. 

They talk more about the changes — it’s barely been a month since Armageddon, but there are subtle changes everywhere. Turns out the KKK, the Proud Boys, QAnon and most of the European neo-Nazi groups were run by demons, so they’ve pretty much disbanded overnight, leaving a bunch of very confused followers. They’re mostly being taken care of by hastily set-up deprogramming groups working on connecting communities again. 

That prompts Cas to tell Jack about Greta — Sam and Eileen already know the story, since they had to add bilocation to the catalogue. 

After they’ve cleared the debris, Dean declares it’s time for the game. He followed through on his promise — there are new recliners in the den, and Jack plays with his, leaning it back and sitting it up again, watching the foot of it go out, in. 

“Okay,” he says. “I think I understand the appeal. It’s about choice again, and comfort.” He sets his recliner to about halfway back, his legs out in front of him.

Dean turns on the TV and flops himself down into his chair, and the others find their way to seats as well. Dean fiddles with the remote till he gets the closed captions showing for Eileen, and then he sits back, takes a sip of his whiskey and lets himself relax a bit. Sam and Eileen get lost in the play, cheering when their team scores. 

Dean finds himself distracted — watching Cas’s hands, resting on his jean-clad thighs, following the movement as he runs his left hand along the inside of his right seam. He almost wishes the others would go, so it would just be him and Cas, like it is most nights, _his_ hand on Cas’s thigh, Cas’ arm around his shoulders. Then he feels Cas’s gaze on him, heavy, and sure enough when he raises his eyes, Cas is looking back at him. Cas’s tongue darts out ever so briefly to wet his lips, and Dean knows that if he made some excuse and hinted for the others to leave, they would, but they’d also assume it’s because he and Cas are going to fuck and that’s not it at all. Maybe Cas would assume that too and Dean doesn’t want to lead him on. Sure, he said he didn’t mind waiting but even angels have limits to their patience, right? Fucking hell, but sometime soon, they need to fucking _talk_. He smiles tightly at Cas, and turns back to the TV. 

* * *

“Um,” says Dean, eloquently. “What’s this?” He holds up the familiar magazine that’s found its way into their basket, but he definitely did not put it there this time.

“I got it for you,” says Castiel. “I know you like attractive women from Asia with large breasts.”

Dean cringes internally. He doesn’t want to explain. Not now, not like this. “Don’t need it,” he mutters. “Just put it back.”

“There’s no need to be embarrassed, Dean. I understand.”

“No, you _don’t_ ,” snaps Dean, and fuck, he didn’t intend for that to come out as harshly as it did. He can’t quite believe it’s only just occurred to him but these are real women with actual lives he’s been using to prop up his bullshit. He’s suddenly furious with himself, with Lee, with fucking John fucking Winchester, with Cassie, even — every person who’s ever pushed him into this role he’s played for years and years.

“Okay,” says Cas slowly. “I don’t understand. Maybe explain it to me, then?”

“It’s an act, okay? It’s always been an act.” He sounds bitter, and hell, maybe he is.

Cas cocks his head. “Liking _Busty Asian Beauties_?”

Dean looks out the window and scratches the back of his neck with one nervous hand. “Being an oversexed stud. Being the kind of guy who chases the ladies and jerks off to that skin mag. It was all — cover. Going through the motions.”

“Dean,” Cas says, as if Dean is delicate and might break.

“Don’t, man,” Dean starts. “I used to like the character I was playing but after a while, I didn’t anymore.”

“Because you were gay?”

“Nah.” That’s something Dean is pretty confident about; if he’s anything, he’s bi. The gender of his _partner_ isn’t the issue; he’d have the same problem with anyone. “Even with Cassie, with Lisa, it was like I was playing a role. I — loved them. I genuinely did. But sex and me. I mostly just fake it.”

“Oh, Dean,” says Cas, and he sounds quietly devastated. “I’m so sorry you felt you had to do that.” Cas reaches out a hand, and lays it on Dean’s forearm. He tries hard to hold it together but that gentle touch tips him over the edge. He shudders, and then Cas is holding him tight in the middle of the damned convenience store, and Dean lets himself feel it, the years of pressure to conform, the sob rising up inside him. 

Cas’ arms surround him, his strength and warmth a balm to his soul. Dean rests his head in the crook of Cas’ neck, cradled, Cas’ fingers at the nape of his neck. The rest of the world falls away, Cas’ solidity the only reality. The hot tears really start to fall now, the ache of what he’s given in the past to get this closeness, the echo of Cassie accusing him of shutting the door anytime he got anywhere into the neighbourhood of vulnerability, the games he’s had to play. And she wasn’t wrong.

“It was like this with everyone,” he sniffles. “With Lee. With Lisa. I’m so screwed up, Cas.” All he wants, all he’s ever wanted, is to be loved, this unconditional closeness and everything he’s been taught, everything his _father_ ever taught him, was that it was wrong, dirty, weak to want it. God, what a mess. 

* * *

Back at the house, Dean’s thinking about Cassie and Lisa still, about what felt good for him when it did and about how much he liked making his partners feel good. He’s a little bit wrung out, after earlier, but he also feels… relieved? that it’s all out in the open. He’s still thinking about it when they get into bed that night, as he undresses, as he curls up into Cas’s embrace as he always does.

Dean and Cas sleep together and hold each other every night, these days, but in that moment, Dean realises that this whole time, he’s had a barrier up. He doesn’t even quite know what it was, and he of all people is not saying that it’s not a relationship if it’s not consummated, but all of a sudden he feels this urge to be closer. 

He’s almost not sure what closer would mean — he’s lying sprawled across Cas, both of them in loose pyjama pants, his bare belly resting against Cas’s, their chests only inches apart by dint of Dean holding himself up on one elbow. Then he watches Cas’s eyes dip down to his mouth again, and he knows, and muscle memory kicks in as he closes the distance between them. 

“Hey,” he says softly, when he’s almost there, giving Cas an out, giving him time to say no, but all Cas does is gasp almost inaudibly, and bite his lip, his eyes dark, pupils blown, his cock stiffening against Dean’s thigh.

Dean leans down, in, and presses their mouths together, kissing Castiel for the first time, the soft, wet warmth of him sinking into Dean’s skin like cherries or peaches, sweet and tangy, slightly sticky, just right. He pulls back, like it’s too much, like he’s imposing, like maybe Cas didn’t want — but Cas surges back up and claims his mouth again, hand in Dean’s hair, kissing him and kissing him and honestly, it’s revelatory. He feels alive all over, tingles in his belly and his toes, delight in his heart and his eyes. He feels like he does when he listens to really good music turned up beautifully loud. He feels — joy; yeah, that’s it. Exultation. 

_I’m yours, Cas_ , he thinks. _This is where I belong, in your arms. I give myself to you. I give myself over to you. Do what you want with me. Yours. Yours._

“Hggghnnh,” groans Cas. “ _Dean_. I hear your prayer. _I want that,”_ he growls. “Want _you_.” He rocks his hardness up into the crease of Dean’s thigh and groans again, deep. “ _Mine_ ,” he hisses, and it’s Dean’s turn to utter a guttural sound he barely recognises as his own voice.

Cas’s fingers dig into Dean’s lower back, and traverse his spine, up and up, firm strokes that are more than scratches, almost predatory, and the deep pressure is something Dean craves. He pushes back into it, then leans down to kiss Cas again, lips parted, tongue darting out to touch Cas’s own and then they’re kissing for real, deeper, tongues chasing each other, lips sliding against one another, hand tangled in his hair, tugging just enough. Dean reaches down, almost on autopilot, dips his hand beneath the waist of Castiel’s sleep pants to wrap around that hardness he’s been feeling. Without thinking, he swipes up, gathering the moisture there, and then down, spreading it, smooth glide, and they haven’t stopped kissing, and he prays to Cas, tells him how beautiful he is, how beautiful his cock feels in Dean’s hand, how Dean wants to feel him spill all over his hand — and he’s surprised to realise he means that. Cas groans long and loud and then he’s doing just that, pulsing in Dean’s hand and arching up to kiss him more raggedly, nips at his lower lip, half-gasps open-mouthed, and then flopping back, astonished, but still with both hands on Dean’s face, holding him in wonder.

Dean strokes his hair, leans in to kiss him again, just a soft press of lips to lips.

Eventually, Cas’s breathing returns to some semblance of normality. “Can I — is there anything you need, Dean?”

“Nah, I’m peachy. I just want to make you feel good, Cas,” Dean says. He hesitates, on the verge of saying more.

“You do,” says Cas. “You did. That was — incredible.”

Dean smiles, runs the back of his knuckles gently across Cas’s cheekbone, cups his face with his hand on the way back down.

“What about you?” Cas asks. “Was that okay for you?”

“Yeah, Cas, that was amazing.” He pauses again, trying to work out how to phrase this, where to even start. 

Cas turns his head, kisses into Dean’s palm. “The things I want to do to you, though…” He chuckles. “I’m not sure all of them are legal.” 

Dean frowns, derailed from his train of thought. “In a Leviticus way? That whole ‘lie with a man as with a woman’ thing?”

“Dean, honestly,” says Cas, half-sitting up. “Which bit of Chuck being a giant jerk did you miss? Why do you suddenly think there’s any validity in 613 random rules He put together to dick around with a group of desperate refugees in a desert that He’d gaslit into thinking they were His favourites?”

Dean stares at Cas open-mouthed for far too long. It’s not like his family went to Church or anything but everything he thought he knew is rearranging itself in his head. The thing is, he knows Chuck is a dick, but he hasn’t really given himself time to think about the magnitude of sheer dickery a dick that big could achieve on a global scale given an infinite timeline.

“So, uh,” he says eventually, soothing Cas back down to the bed, trying to get the conversation back on track. He’s worked it out now, some of it at least. “Back to those things you want to do to me. We can talk about them? And I can let you know what I think. If that would… Yeah.”

“I’d like that. To talk about it. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” Cas says.

“I think I’m okay. Now. This morning — helped,” says Dean.

“Can we… Can I get cleaned up, first?” Cas says, gesturing towards his lower half.

“Oh, god,” says Dean. “Of course.” There’s a box of tissues in the single drawer in the dresser next to the bed, and he leans over to get them, hands a few to Cas, who wipes himself up, and then looks around for the trash can, aims, throws, misses. 

They both shuffle back against the headboard. Sitting up rather than lying down seems appropriate, both still shirtless, but with sweats firmly covering everything again. Then sitting next to each other feels too awkward, so Dean turns to face Cas again, one leg slung underneath himself a little, his hand on Cas’s thigh. He tugs Cas around a little to face him, too, and then he can’t help but think they probably look like two teenagers, sitting on the bed like that, a bit too close, but he’ll just have to deal.

"So, uh…” starts Dean, articulate as ever, furrowing his brow slightly and pursing his lips. If he only knew where to start. Right. Classic avoidance tactic: make it the other guy’s problem. “Where would you like to start?”

“Well, since you brought it up — did you want to put your penis into me?”

“Straight for the big stuff, I see. Or not straight, as the case may be,” chuckles Dean. Okay, here goes. Now or never. It’s been weeks of platonic cuddling. If the guy was going to bolt because Dean doesn’t like fucking much, it would have happened by now, right? He draws in a deep breath, both to calm himself and because the little speech he has planned needs to come out in one hit. “I have to be honest, that’s probably my least favourite thing, so, uh, no thanks. I don’t know how to explain this but — it feels good, physically, to touch and be touched but I don’t… want anything, particularly. And sometimes it’s — boring. If it goes on for too long. I know that’s like, sacrilegious or something but that’s how it is. For me.” It’s so incredibly liberating to tell the truth.

“We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to,” Cas says.

“That’s not what I’m saying, Cas.” Dean reaches up, strokes his fingers around the nape of Cas’ neck, pulls him close for another gentle kiss. When he pulls back, Cas is smiling up at him with those blue, blue eyes, and it warms Dean’s soul. “Making you happy is something I want. If you want it, then I want to try and do it for you.”

“Hmm.” Cas frowns again. 

Before Cas can get too stuck in the misunderstanding, Dean decides to just demonstrate. He leans in and licks up the line of Cas’s jaw, sucks a kiss at the bolt of it, under his ear. “Anyhow, I don’t think that me fucking you is the thing you were thinking about earlier. Tell me,” he murmurs.

“I, uh. I can’t stop looking at your mouth, I keep imagining your mouth on me,” Cas says, rapidly, like he might chicken out if he stops. His breath hitches slightly, and then he says, blushing fiercely. “On my _penis_. Is that wrong?”

Dean smiles even more widely and kisses Cas again, soft. “No, bro, that’s uh, called a blow job. And, uh, it wouldn’t be my first rodeo.”

“I thought you said you’d never kissed a man,” says Cas, surprised.

It’s not particularly a memory Dean wants to think about at that moment, in such a different space, with Cas, but he lets himself be honest. “Lee wouldn’t let me,” he says, and he looks away. “I wanted to kiss him, so bad.” 

“Did you —” Cas stops. “Did you do those other things so you could be kissed?”

Dean swallows, nods minutely, all his emotions so close to the surface it’s like he’s laid bare, pinned like a butterfly under a harsh light. Cas leans in and kisses him now, as easy as breathing. He fills his lungs with it.

“But I think it would be different, somehow, with you…” Dean trails off.

“It wouldn’t bother you?” asks Cas, still uncertain.

“It never bothered me using my mouth before, Cas. It’s not other people’s body parts I have a problem with…” Cas’ hand is fluttering up and down Dean’s arm. “What else?” He may as well get the rest of the awkward conversation out of the way now too.

Cas leans across and kisses Dean one more time, fingers in his hair and fire in his eyes. “I think we need to take it slow, Dean, or I might combust. I thought simply loving you was overwhelming. And then holding you. And then tonight… I’m amazed human bodies can withstand these feelings, Dean.”

“Me, too,” says Dean.

“I love you,” says Cas, and he wriggles down, lies on his side and pulls Dean into his arms again. He kisses him on the shoulder, where his hand print was, once, and wraps his arms around him.

“See you in the morning, Cas,” says Dean, and he wonders if one day soon, he’ll be brave enough to say it back.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find Phoenix on tumblr as [phoenix-ascended](http://phoenix-ascended.tumblr.com). Come and say hi! 
> 
> The rest of the story is fully plotted but not yet written so feel free to leave cheerleading comments or personal headcanons to encourage us...


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